the cup, I pick it up and drink it, and that's the end of that. Now, if I were to reach for the cup and pick up a hedgehog instead, that would give me pause. But as long as a cup is a cup-and up is up, and down is down, and the sun comes up in the morning-I don't think most people ever think about epistemology.'
Antiochus raised a condescending eyebrow. It was one thing for the others to challenge his ideas with other ideas, but quite another to dismiss the importance of the topic he had raised. In his eyes, I had shown myself to be hardly better than a barbarian.
My host was more indulgent. 'Your point is well taken, Gordianus, but I think you're being just a bit disingenuous, aren't you?' said Lucullus.
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Well, in your line of work-insofar as Cicero has explained it to me-I should think you rely a great deal on reason or instinct, or some faculty such as that which Antiochus speaks of, in order to determine the truth. A murder is committed; a relative comes to you, asking you to discover the killer. If a man's stopped breathing, it doesn't take an Aristotle to determine that he's dead; but how do you go about the rest of it-finding out who did it, and how, and when, and why? I suppose some evidence is concrete and indisputable, of the sort you can hold in the palm of your hand-a bloody dagger, say, or an earring separated from its match. But there must be a vast gray area where the indicators are not so certain. Witnesses to a crime sometimes tell different versions of events-'
'They inevitably do!' asserted Cicero with a laugh.
'Or a clue may point in the wrong direction,' continued Lucullus, 'or an innocent man may deliberately incriminate himself, so as to protect another. Lies must be sorted from truth, important facts must be placed above trivialities. The warp and woof of reality must be minutely examined for meaningful patterns and inconsistencies that might elude the scrutiny of a less conscientious… 'finder,' as I believe Cicero calls you. Indeed, Gordianus, I should think that you must have frequent occasion to apply the tenets of epistemology more rigorously than anyone else in this room. I suspect it's become second nature to you; you swim in a sea of practical philosophy and never think about it, as the dolphin never thinks of being wet.'
'Perhaps,' I acknowledged, dubious of his point but thankful that he had rescued me from looking like a cretin.
'So how do you go about it?' said Lucullus. 'Ascertaining the truth, I mean? Do you apply a particular system? Or do you rely on intuition? Can you tell if a man is lying, simply by looking in his eyes? And if so, would that not be an indication that some innate faculty such as that suggested by Antiochus must indeed exist, per-haps more developed in some men-men like yourself-than in others?'
The guests looked at me intently now, seriously interested to see what I would say. I took a deep breath. 'In fact, Lucullus, I have given some thought to such questions over the years. If we accept that a thing must be either true or false-either one thing or the other- then even the most complex questions can be approached by breaking them into smaller and smaller questions, and determining in each case which proposition is true and which is false. Smaller units of truth combine into greater units, until eventually a greater truth emerges. Sometimes, investigating the circumstances of a crime, I imagine I'm building a wall of bricks. Each brick must be solid, or else the whole wall will come down. So it's simply a matter of testing each brick before it's put into place. Is this brick true or false? True, and it goes into the wall; false, and it's discarded. Of course, some-times one makes a mistake, and realizes it only after several courses of bricks have been laid, and it can be a messy business going back and making the repair.'
'Ah, but how does such a mistake occur in the first place?' asked Antiochus, in a tone that showed he had warmed to me somewhat. 'Carelessness, confusion, a lapse of concentration.' 'And how do you recognize the mistake?'
I shrugged. 'Sooner or later, you step back and look at the wall, and you can see there's something wrong. Something's off-kilter; one of the bricks doesn't quite match the others.'
'Ah, but there you have yet another indication of the existence of the faculty I speak of!' said Antiochus. ' 'One knows it when one sees it,' goes the commonplace. But how? Because of an innate ability to distinguish truth from falsehood.'
'An innate sense that doesn't always work, apparently,' said Marcus, with a laugh.
'That this faculty isn't infallible is hardly evidence against it,' asserted Antiochus. 'On the contrary, it's yet another sign of its exis-tence. No other human faculty is infallible, so why should this one be? Perfection exists only in that ideal world which Plato postulated… '
Here the talk drifted to other matters philosophical, about which Lucullus did not question me; gratefully, I withdrew from the conversation. But it seemed to me that my brief foray into the debate had been deliberately engineered by Lucullus, so that he might ob-serve and form a judgment of me. For what purpose? I did not know. Had I satisfied his expectations? That, too, I did not know.
I spent the rest of the meal observing the others. The corpulent Antiochus was the most vocal and self- assertive, and in such a company, that was saying a great deal. Cato tended to enter the debate only in reaction to the others, usually to chide or taunt them. His sister Servilia spoke only when the conversation involved gossip or money, and was silent about politics and philosophy. The poet Archias every so often contributed an epigram, some more appropriate to the conversation than others. Marcus Licinius seemed a contented sort who enjoyed every course of the meal and every turn of the conversation. Cicero was talkative and high-spirited, but occasionally I saw him touch his belly and wince. As he had feared, the meal was too rich for his dyspeptic constitution.
The one who spoke least-hardly at all, in fact-was the sculptor Arcesislaus. Like me, he seemed content merely to enjoy the food and wine and to observe the others. But he wore a vaguely scornful expression; even when Archias came out with an epigram that made the rest of us hoot with laughter, he hardly smiled. Was he shy and retiring, as are many artists, or was he haughty, as might be the case with a handsome young man of great talent? Or was he brooding about something? I could not make him out.
The generally buoyant mood dimmed only once, when the conversation turned to the father of Lucullus, and his sad end. Cicero had been talking-boasting, in fact-of his first important appearance as an advocate before the Rostra, defending a citizen accused of parricide. Cicero had retained my services to investigate the matter, and that was how we first met. The outcome of the trial had made Cicero a famous man in Rome and set him on the path to his present pinnacle of success. He never tired of telling the tale, even to those who already knew it, and would have gone on telling it had not Cato interrupted.
'It was the same with you, was it not, Lucullus?' said Cato. 'Your first appearance in the courts made your reputation-even though you lost the case.'
'I suppose,' said Lucullus, suddenly reticent.
'Indeed, I remember it well, though it seems a lifetime ago,' said Cato. 'Your father was sent to put down the great slave revolt in Sicily. Things went well for him at first, then badly, and he was re-called. No sooner did he arrive back in Rome than one of his enemies accused him of official misconduct and prosecuted him in the courts. He was found guilty and sent into exile, poor fellow. But his sons didn't forget him! As soon as he was old enough to argue before the Rostra, our Lucullus dug up some dirt on his father's accuser and brought the man to trial. Everyone in Rome took sides; there was rioting and bloodshed in the Forum. When it was all over, Lucullus lost the case and the fellow got off-but the real winner was our Lucullus, whose name was on everyone's lips. Friends and foes alike acknowledged him as the very model of a loyal Roman son.'
'And a fellow not to be tangled with,' added Marcus, looking at his brother with admiration.
I was only vaguely aware of this tale regarding Lucullus's father and Lucullus's own younger days, and would have liked to have heard more, but our host was clearly not in a mood to discuss it. He lowered his eyes and raised a hand dismissively. An abrupt silence filled the room, and stretched awkwardly until Archias, clearing his throat, delivered one of his epigrams:
Right are the Thracians, when they mourn The infant on the very morning of its birth. Right, also, when they rejoice that death has snatched Some aged mortal from the earth. Why not? This cup of life is full of sadness; Death is the healing draught for all its madness.
He raised his cup. The rest of us, including Lucullus, did likewise, and the wine we shared dispelled the chill that had fallen on the room.
The meal lasted at least three hours, but had begun so early that the sun was still well above the horizon when Lucullus announced that it was time for the final course.
'Something sweet, I hope,' said Antiochus.
'Sweet, indeed,' said Lucullus. 'In fact, the final course is the principal reason for asking you all here today, so
